Keeping Warm
by 7thtreasure
Summary: Temptress. Tempest. Assassin. Woman. She was all he should never think of having, of desiring, if he wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his...but she would be no one to him. Arya/AegonVI SMUT.


**Finally wrote this down. Arya is the most awesome-est awesome character ever so she should have anything she wants, be it for a moment or forever. She is no one's to take but herself to give.**

**I love me some smut. Arya/Aegon. Just because.**

**(Read in 3/4 format)**

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Was it possible to lose one's mind while fucking a stranger? Aegon certainly thought so.

Temptress. Tempest. Assassin. Woman.

She was everything he should never think of having, of desiring, if he wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his. Arranged marriages, carefully planned alliances, his reclaiming the Iron Throne half rested on his political strength, the rest relied on his name. He had a war to win and wars had been lost for greater causes than women.

Seven Hells, he did not even know her name.

She told him that long ago, she had been someone, had run away to become no one, then had returned from across the sea to be 'someone' again, but she would not be 'someone' with him. She had come to his room as no one and would leave his bed as no one.

Besides, a Faceless Man did not make a queen, no matter how enchanting or deceptive the faces she could wear and the cunt she possessed. The thought of even keeping her by his side, thinking her to possibly share his marriage bed alone should have sent him calling for his guards, sounding the alarm that the intruder who had most likely murdered someone in the castle was trapped in his chambers.

The pleasure wracking his body was convincing him otherwise, to throw caution to the wind. Those of his blood were known to have streaks of madness and she certainly caused his to surface. Feeling her arching her back to press her body against his, he knew caution was lost and madness had won. He had never felt so free, so completely unbounded as he was while touching her.

He believed himself to be an honorable man, the name of House Targaryen was his to uphold, but the heat currently engulfing him was driving him to thoughts of insanity.

As much as he wanted to be discreet, he felt as if he no longer had control over his voice. The sounds that escaped him were foreign to his ears. She unhinged him and it scared him to admit it was easy to push aside the little voice in his head cautioning him to be more gentle.

She was still a woman, after all, and he knew women's bodies were frail compared to men. They were fuckable but breakable, he had believed. Everything she did, everything she was allowing him to do proved his beliefs so utterly wrong. Her body thrummed with power and his body responded without his bidding.

She felt like nothing he knew of. He had nothing to compare her to. A creature from myth, a creature of wild passion, impossible to attain yet unbelievably real if his senses were to be trusted. He was not even sure if his senses could be trusted. Maybe she was working some sort of magic. Nothing short of a spell could make him believe she was not pure perfection.

The desperation of seeing her completely bare had him half-tearing at her clothes as she had clawed of his but once he had seen her, he had regretted his impatience. Not that he was unable to appreciate her perfection while attending to the pressing need to be inside her.

The light from the fire and candles bathed her milk-white skin in an ethereal glow, almost as if caressing her, adoring her body as he was. Eyes grey and piercing. She smelled of pine and fresh soil. Her voice was sultry, seductive. Her pert breasts fit perfectly in his hands, skin and breasts that deceptively had him thinking at first that she was soft all over, a body that promised tender kisses and gentle carressing.

Feeling her lithe limbs entwined with his assured him that she was not made of putty. She was bones and muscle and strength and grace, betraying once again that she was like no other female he knew. Her body was toned and as far as he knew, trained to kill, trained to be a weapon.

He would have to talk to his men who japed that all females were the same once you got under their skirt. Maybe that was it. The woman had come to him in breeches, hair bundled underneath the hood of a cloak, and a dagger pressed against his throat motioning for silence.

He wanted her to bend, wanted to command her, but found he could not. The reigns were in her hands and he found himself completely aroused by the thought of his lack of control. When their lips first touched, their mouths melding in sweet heat, he tried to be patient, to be gentle as he had been with other women. The unbridled passion he had with her, though, had him almost on the verge of coming undone at every kiss, at every flick of her tongue.

Only when he tasted blood did he notice that he was biting her, licking her, surely bruising her with his hold, yet she did nothing that showed protest. She bit him back, clawing at his shoulders, growling then mewling then whispering his name.

His hips moved on their own accord. Fast and brutal and hard then slow, agonizingly slow, not wanting to spill over just yet. Her slick tight heat encasing him had him trembling but nothing could keep him from pounding into her, her feral cries only egging him on.

Dragons were not the only ones with claws and fangs. Arya made sure to teach him that. She smothered his lips with hers to silence his groan, ignoring the light coppery taste of his tongue.

The pain and blood were not an issue. They were her constant companions, after all. It was the mad pleasure that was threatening to break her.

She had come to kill a spider but found herself trapped in the arms of a dragon. The pretender had surely lost his senses as she had, fucking her right after she had made it clear she could slit his throat just as easily as she had killed his master of secrets.

The fat man had been a dangerous target but she had followed him anyway, taking him down and the rats who chose to die with him. She had felt nothing at their deaths, even though she knew his little 'birds' were tools who had known nothing else. Her feet had found their way through the secret passages then the corridors, slipping into a room she thought empty as guards searched for an assassin with a wet blade, not minding the odd cloaked serving boy with a limp.

Her dagger was against his throat before he had time to draw his sword. Annoyed at herself for having mistaken the bedchamber to be empty, she had come face to face with the king her victim had been allied to. She had been tempted to kill him too but the fool had stupidly tried to talk her into letting her blade go. He had grabbed at her wrist but she had him on his back before he could blink. There was a mad wrestle for their blades and heat, tons of heat.

Before she knew it, she was kissing him and he was tugging at her clothes, his erection rubbing against her front.

She gasped aloud as she felt him capture a nipple in his mouth. She did not mind him so rough but the licks and kisses that followed the bites were torture. Her hand wove through his silver hair and she felt slightly unnerved at his unrelenting gaze. His violet eyes meeting hers when he tortured her with his tongue, as if not wanting to miss her every reaction.

Gods, the cock shoving inside her felt amazing. Closing her eyes, she focused her all on the sensation. He had entered her hard and had her screaming in a mixture of pain and mind-numbing pleasure, filling her completely then thrusting in and out, in and out. The sound of her skin slapping against his as he pushed inside and against her would sometimes beat steadily then suddenly erratic.

She felt as if she was tearing in half, the pleasure ripping through her from where she was joined with him. She knew she would be black and blue by morning but knowing did not stop her from ordering him to go faster, harder. His strength and stamina amazed her as he had yet to spill his seed while she had tipped over the edge at least thrice. Her hips did not want to separate from him, her mouth unwilling to leave his lips, his neck, his shoulders.

They twisted and tumbled before she wrestled him onto his back. She rode him as she pleased, sounds of pleasure tearing through her throat as he plunged up into her, hitting her spot over and over again.

His arms came around her almost suddenly, flipping them over. His face strained, his voice harsh and raspy. He asked then almost begged her to give him her name so that his tongue would know what to utter as he neared his climax.

She did not answer so he spilled into her then, shaking. His body slumped forward in exhaustion, slick with sweat and trapping her underneath him. He was out cold when she extracted herself, rolling him off of her. She pulled the sheets from his bed over him as she gathered her clothes.

Arya found herself pausing to stare at the Targaryen man.

'_Fire and Blood._'

What else could keep her warmer in the cold?

...but she had winter in her veins, furs would be enough.


End file.
